The Sapphire Gala was the event of the season. Every pillar of high society was there, draped in jewels that cost more than most city blocks.
As the Thorne limousine pulled up to the red carpet, the flash of a thousand cameras turned the night into a blinding white blur.
"Smile, Selene," Alexander's voice was like velvet over steel.
"You've spent your whole life chasing this spotlight. Don't go shy on me now."
He stepped out of the car and reached back, offering his hand. Seraphina took it. His fingers closed over hers, firm and possessive.
She was wearing the midnight blue gown—a masterpiece of silk that clung to her curves like a second skin.
Her blonde wig was styled into a sophisticated updo, and her makeup was sharp and precise. But as she stepped onto the carpet, she wasn't thinking about the cameras. She was looking for her sister.
'Where are you, Selene?'
"Stay close to me," Alexander whispered, his hand sliding to the small of her back. The heat of his palm through the silk made her skin prickle.
"And remember—the director of the National Gallery is here. If you can't speak about the 'Thorne Collection,' don't say anything at all."
"I've got it, Alexander," she murmured, slipping into her sister's confident stride.
As they entered the grand ballroom, a woman in a dress made of gold sequins intercepted them.
It was Julianna's sister, Beatrice, a socialite who had been Selene's rival for years.
"Alexander! You look ravishing," Beatrice cooed, ignoring Seraphina entirely.
Then, she turned her predatory gaze on the bride. "And Selene... I was so surprised to hear you were interested in the art auction. I remember when you thought 'The Louvre' was a brand of French perfume."
A few nearby socialites snickered.
Seraphina felt the familiar sting of being belittled, but she wasn't the "boring mouse" today. She was a Thorne.
"People change, Beatrice," Seraphina said, her voice calm and melodic.
"Perhaps while you were busy keeping track of my old jokes, I was busy educating myself. It's a pity you didn't do the same; that gold sequins look is very... 2012."
Beatrice's mouth dropped open. A stifled laugh broke out from the group.
Beside her, Seraphina felt Alexander's body stiffen, but when she glanced up, his jaw wasn't tight with anger. He looked almost... amused.
"Shall we look at the paintings, darling?"
Seraphina asked, sliding her arm through Alexander's.
"By all means," he replied, his voice low.
"Lead the way."
They stopped in front of a massive, abstract piece—the centrepiece of the auction. A small crowd had gathered, including the Gallery Director, a man with white hair and sharp spectacles.
"Ah, Mr Thorne! And the new Mrs Thorne," the Director beamed.
"We were just discussing the brushwork on this piece. It's quite polarising. What does the Vance heiress think?"
Alexander stayed silent, his eyes fixed on Seraphina. This was the test.
Seraphina looked at the painting. She didn't see colours; she saw the soul of the artist.
"It's not just abstract," she began, her voice gaining confidence.
"The artist used a dry-brush technique to create those jagged lines in the corner. It represents a fracture in memory. Most people think the blue is water, but if you look at the layering, it's actually a reflection of the sky in a mirror. It's about the distortion of truth."
The Director went silent. Then, he began to clap softly. "Bravo! I haven't heard such a concise analysis since the last time I spoke to a professor at the Sorbonne. Alexander, you've married a connoisseur!"
Alexander didn't look at the Director. He looked at Seraphina. His gaze was so intense it felt like it was stripping away her layers.
"A connoisseur indeed," he muttered.
But the triumph was short-lived.
A waiter approached Seraphina, leaning in to whisper in her ear. "Madam, there is a woman at the side entrance. She says she is your sister and that if you don't come now, she will enter the ballroom and 'start the show."
Seraphina's heart plummeted.
"Excuse me, Alexander. I need to... find the powder room," she whispered.
"Don't be long," he said, his eyes narrowing.
"The auction begins in ten minutes."
Seraphina hurried toward the side exit, her heart hammering. She stepped into the dimly lit hallway and saw a figure leaning against the wall.
It was Selene. She was wearing a cheap, sequined mini-dress, her blonde hair matted, and her eyes bloodshot.
She looked like a distorted, broken version of the woman Seraphina was pretending to be.
"You look great in my clothes, Sera," Selene sneered, holding out a shaking hand.
"Where's my fifty thousand?"
"I don't have it! I told you, I can't just take that much money without Alexander knowing!"
"Then I'm going in," Selene said, pushing past her.
"I'll tell them all. I'll tell Alexander he's married to a charity case who paints flowers in the dark!"
"Selene, stop!"
Seraphina grabbed her sister's arm, but Selene shoved her back. As Seraphina stumbled, her wig snagged on a decorative wall sconce.
With a sickening tear, the blonde wig was pulled half off her head, revealing the dark, chestnut brown hair underneath.
"What is going on here?"
A cold, familiar voice echoed in the hallway.
Seraphina froze. She didn't even have to look. The scent of sandalwood told her everything.
Alexander Thorne stood at the end of the hall, his face a mask of absolute, terrifying fury. He looked at the dishevelled woman in the mini-dress, then he looked at Seraphina—her wig lopsided, her dark hair spilling out, her eyes full of tears.
The secret wasn't just slipping. It was gone.